


To Dust

by calmlikesurrender



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slight Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmlikesurrender/pseuds/calmlikesurrender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started like this- with Harry’s wordless advances. Louis’ cologne still lingering, in the faintest traces, in his pores, his taste still on his lips when Liam pulled him closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Dust

Harry doesn’t ask. He never does.

            There’s a foot of empty space between them, the tattered cover on the sofa, the dip, the next pillow, and Harry doesn’t ask.

            Liam watches his hand make its way to his side, then pull back. Then a minute later when he’s a little closer. When their thighs are nearly touching. Harry’s eyes stay trained on the collar of Liam’s shirt. He licks his tongue out to wet his lips, then shivers when their knees are a finger’s width apart.

 

            It started like this- with Harry’s wordless advances. Louis’ cologne still lingering, in the faintest traces, in his pores, his taste still on his lips when Liam pulled him closer.

            He doesn’t ask why he needs this, why he buries himself in it, and Harry doesn’t say. Just reaches out, the slightest touch to Liam’s thigh, a long slow breath.

            They’re both lost, fighting the silence with every moment, with every button. Every zipper. When he digs into the side table by his bed for the lube, he comes back and Harry almost kisses him, seems to rethink it and drops to his knees instead. Liam settles behind him.

His fingers ghost up Harry’s spine- the slow kiss of sparrow’s wings, lips like dark chocolate. Mint when he sighs. Sticky sweet caramel when he sinks down between Harry’s legs, spreads him a little with steady palms, fingers slick with lube.

            He remembers learning how to do this- a faceless man, name on the roof of his mouth, back when he wasn’t sure.

            Now he has Harry whimpering in seconds, pressing back to try and pull Liam’s tongue deeper into him.

            He kisses there, the puckered skin, then sucks slow until Harry gasps, until he’s empty. With one finger, he presses into him, then two. Spreads them a little to lick up between, leave him slick again.

            And when Harry shivers, when he begs Liam to stop in broken whispers, then, “ _Oh god_ ”, comes with Louis’ name on his lips, neither says a word. Or when Liam pulls back, when Harry’s between his legs, taking him into his mouth. Liam cards his fingers through his hair, closes his eyes and gets close so fast, traces his fingertips over Harry’s shoulder, reaches lower to cup his chin, pulls him in more, barely moving his hips. He drags his hand down past Harry’s neck to his back lower and lower, leaning forward until he sinks two fingers easily into Harry again. Harry moans around his dick and Liam comes-  _ZaynZaynZayn_ making a slow chant on the inside of his skull, and he doesn’t say, but Harry knows.

            They find some sanity in the moments after, dress with little almost-smiles. Shattered an hour later, though, when they’re all at dinner and Eleanor’s practically in Louis’ lap. When Perrie’s tipsy giggles are cutting straight through Liam’s temple.

            Louis offers Harry a smile that’s almost apologetic and Liam doesn’t know how he does it. How Harry stops himself from going insane. When Louis tells him he loves him every day, but still drags  _her_  closer.  

            Not that Liam’s any better. He’s gotten so close to telling Zayn. So close to just walking up to him and pushing him against the wall, this wild fantasy of kissing him for the first time like that. With Zayn realizing how much he’s missing as soon as Liam pulls away..

            Instead he memorizes every sound Zayn makes with Perrie through the thin hotel walls and replays them over and over at night with his hand around himself. The tightest grip, how he imagines Zayn would feel, clenching when Liam bites a bruise into his neck, when he draws his tongue over the dark ink on his collar bone.

            He’s the worst kind of twisted and he’s never even  _touched_  him, so he doesn’t know how Harry does it. How he can watch Louis’ hand on Eleanor’s side and not want to take the knife on his plate and open up his jugular right there, relieve some of that pressure before he explodes.

            Liam doesn’t think he’s that strong. If it was Zayn- if there was a chance in hell… He’d hold Zayn so close, every bone in his body would shatter, sink straight through Liam’s skin, tattoo his name on the staunch white bone of his ribs so he could never leave. 

            But for now he gets Harry’s desperate silence. The curve of his spine on the covers, his lips swollen and red. How he blushes through, “ _Please_ ”, and somehow manages, “ _Touch me_ ” with his face buried in the pillow, Liam’s almost frantic thrusts turning into slow grinds.

            For now he gets Louis’ wake.

            For now he gets Zayn’s name in the silence. The idea of him plastered to memory, to decaying hope, to dust. 


End file.
